


Fireworks and Pizzazz

by peonydee



Series: fried donuts and steamed buns [7]
Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Domestic Bliss, F/M, Married Couple, Mild Innuendo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-12
Updated: 2016-06-12
Packaged: 2018-07-14 14:59:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7176572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peonydee/pseuds/peonydee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Marinette's interview is published at a local magazine, people's reaction, she thought, are a bit excessive</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fireworks and Pizzazz

Marinette Dupain-Cheng, creative director of WILD, the readywear daughter company of the venerated Gabriel, had been busy responding to emails when her assistant strutted to her office, coffee and a magazine titled Fireworks and Pizzaz at hand.

“Ms. Mari,” Aster said with a quirk of one finely shaped brow. “You might want to read that article.”

“Aster, I barely have time to skim through the preliminary sales report for this quarter before the directors meeting,” Marinette muttered. “What’s makes you think I’d have time to pick something else when the meeting is in two hours and eleven minutes?”

“Well. Mr. Gabriel might have a couple of questions about it. If you’re lucky, he’d wait till after the meeting and in his office.”

Mari finally looked up from her computer to shoot an inquiring look at the perfectly coiffed young woman wringing her hands before her desk.

“You know how he gets about anything related to his son.”

“Aster, what is going—”

Aster empathetically tapped on the article the magazine was opened to, but she was interrupted by three firm knocks on her boss’s door, followed by the door swinging open to admit the visitor before either could answer a welcome.

“Good morning, father,” Marinette said, rising respectfully.

Her father-in-law and boss nodded in answer to her greeting, seemingly distracted by other issues. Aster stepped back to give them the semblance of privacy, seemingly melting against the walls but ready to address inquiries or requests from either.

“Was there anything you wanted to discuss before the quarterly reports?”

“Marinette, I felt joy finally return to my life when you and Adrien introduced me to Emma and to then to Hugo.”

“Indeed, they fill all our lives with joy, father,” Marinette said carefully.

“The great love you bear for my son has been nothing but a continual blessing.”

“Your son is a paragon, sir. He is a blessing to us both.”

“Quite so. I try not to project my own prejudices and peculiarities into your lives–you’re both adults now with a family to raise–but perhaps, a bit more discretion on your part might save others from having to field awkward questions for you. No doubt young Hugo and Emma would appreciate that the most–once they’re old enough to read, anyway.”

As a direct supervisor, Gabriel Agreste was usually frank and clear in both directives and admonishments. The circular talk that hinted at some faux pas she seemed to have made was making Mari’s head throb.

“Father, if I had done something that displeased you…” she started, unable to completely curb the exasperation in her voice.

“Hm.” Gabriel nodded instead of answering. “Perhaps, you couldn’t have known. The press have a way of, ah, spinning innuendo out of the most harmless discourse. Some have enough skill to do so in such a way as to thwart any direct legal action from our part. Let this be a lesson, Marinette.”

“I shall reflect upon my actions.”

“Don’t get me wrong, child. I have the highest regard for your instincts on what constitutes tasteful and you rarely ever make the same mistake more than once. I hope never to have to discuss this with you again.”

Marinette simply nodded this time, lest Gabriel decide to amend his cryptic commentary with even more euphemisms. Her father-in-law gave her another stern glance before briskly walking out of her office.

“Aster,” the designer groaned. “Do you really know what was that all about or do I have to bother Adrien at work so he could decode his father for me?”

“It’s why I was strongly suggesting you read the article, Ms. Mari, but Mr. Agreste came before you had the chance.”

Belatedly, the mother of two did as she was told, drawing the magazine to herself and skimming the first few paragraphs. She recognized the piece from an interview she gave several weeks ago. It was a harmless, good-natured conversation as far as she remembered. She discussed her most successful collections, touched on her homelife, and showed off her babies—in a tasteful way, she thought. What about it could have upset Gabriel Agreste?

Before she could read through the article, her office phone began ringing. She ignored it at first, shaking her head at Aster, but the caller wouldn’t take the hint, hanging up at the voicemail prompt and redialing again.

“Dupain-Cheng speaking,” Mari finally said, clicking on the speakerphone without checking the caller’s number.

The indignant high-pitched rant that disintegrated into a screech could only be from her best friend. Hastily, Marinette grabbed the phone from the cradle and attempted to calm her down. Aster took the hint and left the room post haste.

“Alya!” the designer hissed. “What on earth is going on?”

“You. You you you being disgustingly gross on a national magazine is what’s going on! How dare you be so smug over your ridiculously cheesy love life? This is more damaging to young girls in their formative years than a Disney princess romance—”

“You are the second person today who’ve accused me of committing some mysterious crime. Can you at least explain or are you going to be like my father-in-law, avoiding the topic but returning to it incessantly and judging me and–”

“This totally explains why you guys already have two kids with barely a year apart age gap four years into marriage. Which is why the next time you complain to me about the terrible twos and your trouble-squared almost Irish twins, I’m going to tell you it serves you right!”

“I am literally the most confused person on the planet right now. Explain, Alya. Please!”

“Explanation: you are literally the thirstiest person in the entirety of France!”

“Are you talking about the Fireworks and Pizzaz interview? Because you guys are overreacting. It’s an intimate and honest piece and–”

“Read it again, girl! Page 23. Start on the 3rd paragraph. If you were planning on dishing out details this juicy, you could have at least considered offering me the job!”

“You’re an award-winning investigative journalist, Alya. You wouldn’t be caught dead writing lifestyle, remember?”

“It’s the thought that counts. Anyway, read it and let me know if there’s anything else I can do to help. I can do some damage control on my end, but the Internet is an irascible animal.”

“All right, Alya, I will.”

Mari read the article, carefully combing through the part best friend indicated.

_  
_

_Interviewer: “Ms. Dupain-Cheng, your husband once commanded the heartbeat of legions of teen and preteen fans across Europe. Even now that he’s retreated unexpectedly to the less visible though certainly not any less prestigious field of particle physics, he is still known as Paris’s favorite Adonis. How does it feel to be married to such an accomplished man?“_

_Ms. DC: “I think I speak for both of us when I say a couple of minutes of chasing after two toddlers would be enough to knock any semblance of Adonis out of anyone.”_

_Interviewer: “Mr. Agreste sounds like a hands-on parent. That probably doesn’t leave him much time to keep up with his looks.”_

_Ms. DC: “He is completely hands-on. As for keeping up with his looks, anyone who has lived under the camera knows that there are a lot of pre- and post-production steps involved before a billboard or a magazine spread of him is released and on a regular day, he is being pulled in too many directions to have even time for half that kind of upkeep. I like his homebody/mad scientist aesthetic though, so I can’t complain.”_

_Interviewer: “You have to admit Adrien Agreste doesn’t need much help in bolstering his looks.”_

_Ms. DC: “No, he doesn’t, but I might be biased.”_

_Interviewer: “We might all be biased at that. Though you’ve probably developed some immunity to his stellar looks?”_

_Ms. DC: “Not appreciably, no. Sometimes, I’m still caught off guard by how pretty he is and end up gawking stupidly at him instead of passing him the dish cloth he asked some five minutes ago.”_

_Interviewer: “Aha! So you’re weak for his domestic aesthetic, too.”_

_Ms. DC: “Ahahahahaha!”_

_Interviewer: “What is the sexiest thing your husband does without his knowledge that drives you crazy?”_

_Ms. DC: “Crazy?”_

_Interviewer: “Crazy as in, violent urge to drop what you’re doing and dragging him off somewhere private to scold him for being sexy. No rhyme or reason.”_

_Ms. DC: “Hmm… I don’t know about the ‘without his knowledge part,’ but I love watching Adrien take care of the kids: playing with them, teaching them the alphabet or colors or somersaults or interesting selfie angles, just interacting with them, really.”_

_Interviewer: ”…. you did say he is a very hands-on dad.“_

_Ms. DC: “Very.”_

_Interviewer: “I dare say you’re quite in trouble, Ms. Dupain-Cheng.”_

_Ms. DC: “Oh, I’ve been for years.”_

Marinette Dupain-Cheng, creative director of WILD readywear, mother of two bright-eyed and bushy tailed toddlers, and wanton wife of Adrien Agreste, buried her face in her hands and stifled a scream.

###

Unfortunately, Gabriel and Alya were only the first of several other people who couldn’t wait to give Marinette a piece of their mind. They were hardly the most enthusiastic either. Just as Marinette was about to make her way to the directors meeting, determined to arrive early at the conference room for once, another visitor came barging into her office.

Mari plopped back on her seat and buried her face in her hands. Who would have thought such an innocent statement in praise of her other half would have caused such controversy? She didn’t have to look up to know who it was. Chloe Bourgois had a penetrating voice, indifferent to bystanders victimized by her speech on protecting the virtue of childhood friends and whatnot. For all the time the socialite had spent foisting school work on her nominal best friend, Marinette was impressed by some of the words Chloe used. She had to step in when Chloe turned her harangue on Aster, who had been valiantly and politely herding the socialite away from Marinette. Chloe was in her full Executive VP of Bourgeois Hotels, Health Spas, and Parks Incorporated Regalia, which constituted of one sharply cut suit jacket, pants, and silk blouse, all designed by Marinette herself and re-released under the WILD Femme Fatale line. She grimaced and rose to meet her next sermon.

“All right, Chloe,” Marinette said, business-like. “You have five minutes left to your speech before I have to run to this meeting. Do your worst.”

“I never liked you, Marinette Dupain-Cheng. You never know your place. You refuse to recognize your betters. You have no sense of refinement whatsoever. You are like one of those unsavory distant relations gained by an ill-matched marriage. It’s only because Adrien is like a brother to me that I tolerate you.”

“It’s only because I’m married to Adrien that I tolerate you. So…”

“How does it feel like to be the most hated woman in Paris?”

“I’m surprised to learn I dethroned you. How?”

“By being boastful and haughty and rubbing your possessions hatefully in the face of every woman in this city–no, country! How tasteless can you get, bandying about your insatiable sexual appetite, using your children to solicit attention from your hapless husband–”

“Are we five years old here?!” Marinette exploded. “I was just being honest, praising how good Adrien looks when he’s with the kids. I mean, I know he usually looks good anyway is an understatement, but he is amazing with Emma and Hugo. He’s so patient. Everything they do seem to excite him, light him up like the Eif–”

“Don’t! Don’t you dare list me things that make you want to jump his bones!”

“I did no such thing! Besides, he is my husband. If he’s ready and willing, it is well within my rights to jump him, bones and all!”

“That’s exactly the attitude that will get you killed, Marinette!”

“No one will murder me over an innocent magazine article, Chloe.”

“Suit yourself.” The blonde huffed. “If you die, Adrien will become the most eligible widower in Paris and I know of several interested parties with more appropriate pedigrees.”

“Now who’s lacking taste and good breeding? Wishing ill upon my children by killing off their mother–bite your tongue!”

“Excuse me. Why else am I wasting precious time warning you about it?”

“Just expense your wasted time with your daddy, please. Are you done now? I’m going to be late as it is. I don’t want to add to my shortcomings by being rude to you and storming out of my own office in a rush.”

“This isn’t over, Marinette!” Chloe promised ominously before volunteering to do the storming out herself.

“And with two minutes to spare,” remarked the exhausted Aster. “You handle that sort of thing very well, Miss Mari.”

“Practice,” her boss said with a sigh. “I better go face the music now. At some point, I expect to be numb to all this hyperbolic commentary.”

“Good luck, ma’am.”

###

Numbness, Marinette discovered when she arrived at her parents’ bakery, was not to be hers.

With some help from their families, Adrien and Mari efficiently juggled the tasks of child-rearing with the rest of their responsibilities. While the classes Adrien taught were mostly scheduled in the early afternoon from Mondays to Thursdays, the lecture hours of the two courses he was taking towards his Ph.D were on weird hours of Fridays and Saturdays, sometimes with prolonged hours demanded of him in the school lab or at another lab out of town. Marinette’s days at work usually started at seven o’clock and ended at four, unless she was expected to attend some fashion event. On most mornings, Adrien was the one taking care of the kids, guiding them through breakfast, washing up, dressing up, and then through some involved game their father had in his arsenal of hyperactive, only-child made-up games. He would prepare their lunch and snacks, herd them for their ten-minute walk to daycare, and then head to work. Marinette would pick them up around four-thirty, fix their dinner, coax them through bathtime, and get them ready for bed. Adrien would come home in time to take over for story time while Marinette ate dinner. Sometimes, Adrien would be able to come down for his own supper early enough to eat with her. Sometimes, he would  
fall asleep for an hour in Emma’s bed. He always came down to help her clean up, give her time to read or sketch or sew up a new attire for one of them. The arrangement worked well.

Sometimes, neither Adrien or Mari were available to bring or pick up the children from daycare. For those days, Mari’s parents offer to watch them for part of day, with Manon taking over once her classes finish. (Twice Gabriel had volunteered to take the children for a day; Nathalie almost had a nervous breakdown the first time.)

Today was a visit Granny and Gramps Day, so after a long day of (what she probably partially imagined as) funny looks and smart-mouthed comments, Marinette trudged into her parents’ bakery.

“Busy day?” her father said sympathetically.

“A little bit,” she said. “It was mostly just weird and annoying actually. The kids?”

“Still down for their naps. Manon had to leave a little early for some group project. Your mother is making chicken nuggets for them. Cordon bleu and scalloped potatoes for us.”

“That sounds amazing.” Marinette inhaled deeply as she stashed her things in the cabinet beneath the register, the same one she used to use for school things when she manned the bakery as part-timer during high school. “It always smells like heaven in here. Seriously, Papa, can I hide in one of your croissants for a day? The babies can stay if they plan on just napping with me.”

“Sounds tempting. And what would you do about the soon-to-be Dr. Agreste? It’ll be a tight fit.”

“Apparently, I get him in trouble, so he’ll have to stay outside our croissant cocoon and just meow piteously like the stray cat that he is.”

Her father’s face turned decidedly neutral at this comment. Marinette doubted it has to do with the broken lady fingers he was cleaning up from the display case.

“What is it, Papa?” Marinette demanded. “Are you also going to kinkshame me?”

Tom Dupain left the register and ran away from his daughter, yelling behind his back some excuse about burning buns. He was totally lying—he never baked bread this late in the day. Sabine Cheng rescued him only ten minutes after Marinette automatically took over minding the shop, but not before she had already sold a box of madeleines for 15 cents less than they were currently priced each.

“Is Papa okay?” she asked her mother once the shop emptied out again.

“He will be,” Sabine assured her, eyes kind and twinkling with amusement. “I think sometimes when you’re not around, he forgets you’re no longer the little girl in pigtails attempting to beat the heck out of him in Mortal Kombat 2.”

Marinette chuckled. “I think you’re reminiscing about somebody else beating up Papa in Mortal Kombat 2, Ma. It was Mega Strike III.”

“Oh, that’s right. I remember. You even competed as a team with Adrien. Your first date together, I believe.”

“Please, Mama. He didn’t even ask me out till we were twenty. We’re like two of the densest people in the planet or have you not noticed.”

“And look at the two of you now.”

“Scandalizing Paris?” Marinette suggested wryly.

“I was going to say that soon you’re both going to be the ones being defeated in the newest iteration of some fighting game, but fine. That too.”

The younger woman groaned in dread. “Papa read the article, too, didn’t he?”

“Yes. He was fine until Manon started giggling over her phone and sharing the Internet’s thoughts on your ardent admiration of your husband.”

“Mama, was there anything wrong with what I said?”

“Personally, I don’t think so.” Sabine hummed thoughtfully as she set aside some choice pastries–no doubt for her favorite son-in-law. “I think it may have to do with Adrien’s image during his days as a model.”

Marinette thought about this for a moment. Adrien started modeling as a child and had always had a clean, family-friendly image even as a teenager. While other models and actors often released something shocking or different to mark their transition into adulthood, Adrien never quite did, probably because he accepted less and less model work as time went by.

Even so, he had posed for beachwear or jeans in the past. Jean ads were sometimes borderline pornographic, Mari had to concede, but there was something about Adrien Agreste that made photographers focus on his emotive face instead, whether he projected his sunny joy of life or his other more mysterious, more appealing hint of young tragedy behind a complicated smile. His work in the runway had him virtually naked at least once that she had witnessed, Mari remembered, but there was something sterile in the perfect packaging of her then-boyfriend, the designer’s presence in the work that somehow negated any lewd thoughts she might have had.

Perhaps, it was just her as a designer appreciating Adrien as a model, appreciating him merely as a part of the work being presented. He had always appealed to a diverse audience and his image was perfectly calibrated by his PR team to ensure his longevity. Adrien had always been wholesome.

“But I didn’t say anything un-wholesome!” Marinette said aloud in frustration.

“Sweetheart,” her mother said, abandoning the chocolate-dipped croissants she was and instead gently touching her shoulders. “I think you forget—understandably so—how much of a public figure Adrien Agreste is. And how much of an object of desire he is for many people.”

Marinette’s brain short-circuited for a good three minutes at hearing her mother call her husband “object of desire.” She managed to recover and croak her acknowledgement, if not agreement, to her mother’s assessment.

“Any hint of him doing anything sexual naturally sets fire to people’s imagination.”

“We have children, Mama! How on earth did people think Hugo and Emma came about?”

“There’s a degree of wishful thinking–think back to your days of awkwardly shooing your dad and me away from your room as you practiced that game with Adrien.”

“I was fourteen then at most. Any imaginings involving Adrien back then became completely hypothetical beyond my naming our kids Hugo, Emma, and Louis.”

“And some are more precocious than others.”

“Oh my god, Mama…”

Sabine raised an eyebrow at her squirming daughter.

“That’s just gross, the idea of people thinking about what we do in private.”

“There’s nothing wrong with sex, is there? It’s just that for some, for you, it’s a very private thing shared between you and the one you love.”

“I didn’t mean to rub my relationship into the face of every other person in love or infatuated with him.”

“I know you didn’t, Mari.”

“Thanks, Mama.”

“I hope you feel better soon.”

Marinette paused to reexamine her feelings about the matter. “Honestly, as long as Adrien isn’t upset with it, I don’t think I care to think about it anymore.”

“Good. Now let’s start closing up so we can all have dinner together.” Sabine glanced meaningfully at her daughter. “Your father was wondering earlier if we didn’t feed you enough when you were growing up.”

In spite of herself, Marinette groaned once more. “Mama, your joke is completely off. It’s thirst. Alya has already declared me the thirstiest woman in Paris this morning. Thank you, everybody.”

“That was one of the comments Manon read to us, Mari: ‘I’ll have an encore serving of Father Adrien, if I were her–three for each meal ’ I was just expanding on the joke, dear.”

“Please. Don’t.”

###

Adrien came home later than usual that night, having been caught by train delays on top of leaving the lab at a university in the suburbs later than he intended. His wife was waiting up for him, glass of milk and tray of pastries at hand.

“You’re the greatest wife any man can ask for,” the model-turned-physicist told his wife in between kisses. He stopped his ministration when he noted her rather lukewarm response. “What’s wrong, my queen?”

“Nothing,” Marinette said hastily. “At least, I hope you think is nothing.”

Adrien actually delayed shoving a cookie to his mouth to prompt her to speak, squeezing her hand in encouragement as he started chewing.

“Do you remember that interview I told you about?”

He nodded and held up a hand. He swallowed his mouthful with the help of several generous gulps of milk as Mari looked up at him expectantly from the dinner table.

“Adrien, I think I–”

She was cut short when her husband tenderly cupped her face in his hands, brushed his lips first on her nose and then her chin, before joining her mouth with his.

Mari couldn’t help but lick her lips after they parted. The cookies were that damn good after all, and Adrien was looking at her in a way that suggested he wasn’t thinking about the cookies despite their being so damn good. She felt the heat creeping from her cheeks and down her neck, down to her belly.

“I’m a little disappointed about missing storytime tonight, but I have a few ideas on how you can help me feel better, lady-mine.”

“Kitty, I actually had something important I want to talk to you about.”

“Is it about the Fireworks and Pizzaz magazine article?” he asked even as he coaxed her away from the kitchen nook and lead her to their bedroom. “Because it’s perfect.”

“Perfect? But your father…”

“Father will get over it. You should see the letters he used to send my mom. You can’t tell him, okay? I saw them once by accident when I had to get copies of paperwork from the fire-proof vault–birth certificates and things for when we were applying for our marriage license. They might just be better than your dad’s famous flan–not too sweet, delicate, and ahh, the texture!”

“Love letter? You thought it was like a love letter?”

Adrien ducked his head shyly, his green eyes dark even as he peered at her, head angled in a way that profiled his face against the soft yellow of the light streaming from the outside of their otherwise dark room.

“I thought it was the most romantic thing, even almost beating that time you texted me star coordinates over a week, waiting for me to discover the ‘Emma, Hugo, or Louis’ it spelled out.”

Marinette had to admit she was proud of how she informed her husband that they were expecting their first child. He had teased her mercilessly when he found out about her teenage fantasies while they were dating. The names became somewhat of a private joke until they stuck, two of them now legally appended to their children.

“Plagg showed me the article hot off the press,” Adrien continued as he divested his clothes and rejoined Mari where she stood watching. “He knew I had a long day scheduled today and that I couldn’t just take a two-hour train ride just to kiss you senseless for it. He’s a little shit, you know.”

“Emma had terrorized Tikki all morning unfortunately,” Marinette said ruefully as she snuggled under Adrien’s arm. “She escaped to the doctor’s house. I haven’t even gotten the chance to tell her how mortified I am about the Fireworks and Pizzaz article.”

“Don’t think about all those people’s comments. If they can’t be happy for us, I don’t know what I can do for them, anyway.”

“You are so unexpectedly innocent still, Adrien,” she murmured against his collarbone.

“I’ll show you how shamelessly I’m actually not,” he quipped, flashing her a saucy grin as he untangled himself from her. “I’m going to say goodnight to the kittens first. Want to watch, whet your appetite for yours truly?”

The pillow she threw unfortunately missed his smug face by a mere inch, the space he vacated left with just a ghost of his throaty snicker.

That was why Marinette was always in trouble. She didn’t care one bit what other people thought about her troublesome ways.

###

Three months later, as Marinette was scrutinizing the quarter’s sales report, her personal assistant Aster interrupted her with a cup of coffee and another magazine.

Marinette stared in consternation at the glossy vodka ad gracing the back page. She certainly had not given another interview after that troublesome one she gave for the Fireworks and Pizzaz magazine. Still, she learned her lesson after that incident. Aster wouldn’t have interrupted if not for an important matter. Marinette leafed through the magazine and promptly choked on her coffee.

Aster had been high-tailing out of her office but dutifully came back to slap Marinette’s back, waiting for her to cough her airway clear before leaving.

There was a spread of Adrien Agreste, smack in the middle of the Men’s Health issue. He was resplendent in a paired compression shirt and shorts, hefting his toddlers with each sculpted arm. Both their children were facing away from the camera but they were unmistakable to their mother. “Bitten by the Domestic Bug” came the unpromising title.

Sure enough, the Fireworks and Pizzaz issue came up in Adrien’s interview:

 

 

_Interviewer: “Needless to say, Adrien, you love being a father.”_

_Adrien: “That’s right. As cliche as it sounds, I really believe I’ve found my calling. Modeling is always fun of course. It’s unexpectedly taxing in ways people don’t expect, but it’s so entangled with my childhood memories that I don’t feel like it’s a job anymore. And physics–don’t tell my wife, but it might actually be my first love.”_

_Interview: “You stuck with modeling for a long, despite it being just a fling and all.”_

_Adrien: The heart has its reasons. Jokes aside, there’s a completely different level and depth of fulfillment in being a father. I think it’s because there’s barely any self involved in the role. It’s giving one’s all unconditionally for someone else’s sake.”_

_Interviewer: “Now, a recent interview of your wife seem to support your self-assessment, Adrien. She was quoted to have said that the sexiest thing you unconsciously do is parenting. Which is mind boggling to me honestly. To me, nothing kills arousal than one’s three year old banging on one’s bedroom door and claiming the not-so-tiny-anymore space between you and your partner as protection from the bogeyman.”_

_Adrien: “Here’s the thing with being sexy or feeling sexy: I don’t believe it always have to end up with me and my wife doing the horizontal tango. I think there are several facets that make up a marriage—or for that matter any committed relationship. I think that tension, that excitement, of finding something to admire about a person–whether it’s a completely new side you’re both discovering or one that you’ve just rediscovered after a long familiarity–I think that’s important. Life isn’t meant to be static and neither are our relationships. A shared life to me is tantamount to shared movement. It doesn’t have to be profound.”_

_Interview: “Indeed.”_

_Adrien: “Now some cynics might say that’s just flailing around to create the illusion of change, but I disagree. It’s refusing to move, to change. Being inert for fear of falling out of love or finding something that’s a dealbreaker. That’s the danger.”_

_Interview: “If you don’t mind me asking then, what is something your wife does unconsciously that you find sexiest?”_

_Adrien: “All right. I’m sorry in advance if this sounds off or creepy. Everything my wife does to some extent I find sexy. It’s just a matter of, uh, intensity.”_

_Interview: “So you’re basically saying anything your wife does turns you on. Like the very thought of her arouses you.”_

_Adrien: “I think it’s a continuum. I love my wife and I’m still in love with my wife. Everything related to her excites me and the degree… of… of that excitement manifesting physically…. varies.”_

_Interviewer: *whistles* “I kind of understand now what sort of analytical brain cause you to leave a very successful career in modeling to study physics.”_

_Adrien: “I’m not the most practical person, no. I’ve been known to overthink some convoluted theory about something and end up missing the obvious.”_

_Interviewer: “And the answer to my question?”_

_Adrien: “Well, I’ve basically just called fatherhood my life’s calling, so it shouldn’t be surprising to you how much seeing my wife in her partnered role, as the mother of our children, makes me happy.”_

_Interviewer: “I’m not gonna lie: I think your wife’s interviewers failed all the citizens of France when they neglected to clarify her answer. Does that mean every time you see her mothering your kids you have the urge to whisk her away and make love to her?”_

_Adrien: “Time and place. Mr. Chamack. Time and place.”_

Once again, Marinette Dupain-Cheng, wanton wife of wanton Adrien Agreste, buried her face in her hands and stifled a scream.

End I think

**Author's Note:**

> thanks Miko for co-plotting and hand-holding


End file.
